A Crafty Killing (23 page)

The wine merchant squirmed in the hot seat. “It’s just that Mr. Rust is a convicted criminal. And the boys he employs are all local troublemakers. We have to protect our businesses. Our insurance rates—”

“Are not influenced by Mr. Rust’s business or his employees.” Katie took in the guilty expressions on all the people at the table. “Won’t somebody please tell me the truth? Otherwise, you’re going to have to elect another president.”

Nona Fiske’s face was taut with disapproval. “Ezra did not want that—that criminal in our organization. And I can’t say I blame him. That young hooligan stole and smashed Ezra’s car!”

Katie’s stomach tightened. “I did some checking the other day. Andy was sixteen years old when he stole Ezra’s car. And he went to reform school for it. He also paid Ezra back and went to college. Fifteen years later, he hires kids who are at risk to keep them from making the same stupid mistakes he did. Andy votes and pays taxes and runs a profitable restaurant that makes a damned good pizza. Why
shouldn’t
he be in the Merchants Association?”

Nona’s eyes narrowed. “But Ezra said—”

“Ezra’s no longer here,” Katie said, her voice firm. “He may have held a grudge against Andy, but the man’s done nothing to any of you. A lot of his customers are your customers. He’s willing to pay his membership dues and become a contributing member of this association. Why can’t you cut him some slack?”

Katie’s gaze slipped across their guilty faces. What kind of control had Ezra exerted over these people? Had he kept them in line because he was an old curmudgeon, because his was the biggest, most visible business on the Square, making him the most powerful man in the Merchants Association?

Good grief, Katie realized with sudden insight, had they been afraid of Ezra?

Tracy Elliott broke the silence. “I move we give Mr. Rust a chance.” Her gaze shifted to her mother, whose eyes flashed with disapproval, then back to Katie. “How about a six-month trial membership? If it works, he can become a full-fledged member.”

“I suppose ...” Gilda murmured. She, too, was looking at Mary.

“Let’s put it to a vote,” Katie said. “All those in favor, please raise your hands.” She raised hers first; Tracy followed suit. Gilda, Conrad, Jordan, and his wife, Ann, raised their hands, too. After briefly hesitating, Sue, Dennis, and Paula followed suit.

Only Ezra’s former lovers—Nona and Mary—hadn’t voted to give Andy a chance. Of course, Tracy had voted in her mother’s place. As partners in the business, would they have words about it later?

“Motion carried.” Katie banged the gavel, momentarily enjoying her newfound influence. Yet it bothered her that Ezra had wielded his power over these people for his own selfish reasons. Chad’s mentor had been just an ordinary man with foibles after all.

“Who’s going to tell Mr. Rust?” Nona asked, her voice cold.

“I will,” Katie volunteered. “Now, there’s something else I’d like to discuss. Several lights in the parking lot are burned out. Whose responsibility is it to fix them, and how soon can we get it done?”

The strip of jingle bells rang cheerfully as Katie opened the plate glass door, but she wondered if she would be persona non grata as she entered Angelo’s Pizza Parlor.

Wooden paddle in hand, a flush-faced Andy Rust looked up from the oven door he’d just closed. “Did you come in for a late-night snack?” he asked.

After the heavy meal at Del’s, not even the aroma of pepperoni could entice Katie.

“Not tonight,” she said, feeling better at his neutral greeting. Maybe she’d imagined the hostile look he’d given her the night before. Now he just looked harried. “Have you got a couple of minutes?”

“A couple,” Andy said. Then to prove him wrong, the phone rang. While he took the order, Katie made herself at home on one of the green plastic patio chairs he kept for waiting customers.

Andy hung up the phone, grabbed a round of dough from the waiting rack, and then started making a pizza. “Two of my employees called in sick tonight. It’s been a madhouse since five o’clock. What can I do for you?”

“I just came from the Merchants Association meeting. I have good and bad news.”

Andy frowned.

“The good news is you’ve been accepted. The bad news is you have to pay your dues—by first thing Monday morning.”

“They’re not going to hose me, are they?” he asked, sounding less than thrilled.

“I convinced them to prorate it. Your first installment is for November and December. The organization collects dues for the coming year in January. They figure everyone has a good holiday season and can best afford it then.”

Andy shrugged. “Makes sense.”

“
You
got off easy. I got elected to take Ezra’s place as head of the Association.”

Andy’s eyes twinkled. “How’d that happen?”

Katie told him, making light of the situation. What other way was there to look at it? Andy listened, his expression neutral. “You do seem to be living under that famous Chinese curse,” he said at last.

Katie blinked in confusion.

“‘May you live in interesting times,’” he explained.

“You got that right. My entire life has turned around in the last week.”

“Has it only been a week since old man Hilton was killed?” Andy asked.

Katie nodded. “Is that what you called him when you were a teenager?”

“Everybody did. He wasn’t exactly the nicest man in town. At least from a kid’s perspective. He never bothered me since I bought the shop.”

“No, but I’m afraid it was Ezra who blackballed you from the Merchants Association. Apparently he held a grudge.”

Andy shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about that now. But I can be an asset to the Association now that he’s gone.”

His words sounded so cold. But then, Katie reminded herself, she’d been looking for slights and grudges or anything else to explain why someone would kill the old man. She had plenty without suspecting Andy, too.

Time to drop the other shoe.

“There is kind of a catch,” Katie admitted. “Your membership is provisional—on a six-month trial basis. I’m afraid not everyone in the Association was willing to welcome you with open arms.”

Andy straightened, his expression hardening. For a moment Katie was afraid he might decide joining the group wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Then I guess it’s up to me to prove them wrong.”

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t let other people’s pettiness drive you away.”

Andy’s smile was ironic. “It would take more than that to scare me off.”

The phone rang again. Andy’s plastic-gloved hands were covered in cheese.

“I’ll get it,” Katie volunteered, and darted behind the counter. Finding a pad and pencil, she took down the order, read it back, then looked at Andy for a time estimate.

“Twenty minutes pickup, an hour delivery.”

She repeated the bad news. “Pickup!” she said, and thanked the customer for calling Angelo’s.

“Not bad,” Andy said, topping his latest creation with broccoli. “You any good at making pizza?”

Katie hadn’t planned on taking a crash course in pizza construction, but by the end of the evening she could at least make a credible job of it. And she’d definitely cemented a friendship with Andy Rust. That, in itself, had made the evening a success. She’d been grateful for the time spent with him. The busywork had helped keep at bay the growing worry that Detective Davenport was spending a little too much time looking into her background and lack of a concrete alibi for the night of Ezra’s death.

Though tired from her long day, Katie had lain awake for more than two hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the day’s events, and wondering if Detective Davenport was planning to arrest her in the not-too-distant future. Meanwhile, Mason contentedly snoozed at her side. Though Seth was a general-practice attorney, perhaps she should ask him to recommend a good criminal attorney.

This was insane. Katie had never so much as run a stop sign, and now there was the possibility she could be arrested—albeit on only circumstantial evidence—for murder. How had her life degenerated so quickly in less than a week?

Artisans Alley was more of a liability than an asset, and perhaps she had been monumentally stupid to quit her job to take on the task of bringing it back to viability. Only an idiot would kill for such a sinkhole. Still, she knew she hadn’t killed Ezra—was the Sheriff’s Office so focused on a conviction that they didn’t care whom they accused?

The sky was still dark when Katie visited Ezra’s house to feed his cat the next morning. The little tabby had been ecstatic to see her, purring so loud and hard that Katie feared the cat would explode with joy. It almost broke her heart to leave the cat alone and head back to the Alley. Minutes later, she unlocked Artisans Alley’s back door. She hadn’t planned on arriving at the crack of dawn, but after tossing and turning for several hours she’d decided Mr. Sandman wasn’t going to make a visit after all.

Despite her fatigue, Katie felt ready to start work and hit the light switch inside the back door, illuminating the vendors’ lounge. Ezra hadn’t made the room too hospitable, and maybe that was the point. If he was shorthanded, why make the lounge a comfortable respite? Still, surely Vance-the-woodworker could fix the rickety maple table with its six mismatched chairs that sat under the wan yellow light from a naked sixty-watt bulb. The hole of a room felt chilly, unwelcoming. Should she waste heat and turn on the blowers, or wait until opening and hope the body heat of her anticipated customers would warm the cavernous building?

Economics won out over personal comfort. Katie decided she’d activate the blowers ten minutes before opening. Tomorrow, she’d bring along an extra sweater.

Her office seemed even colder, even more unwelcoming. Of course, it was still Ezra’s space. Painted a drab institutional green, it reminded Katie of a military prison—or perhaps a mental ward from the nineteen thirties. A warm peach color would lift her spirits. Yes, she’d paint it peach—and the file cabinets, too. And soon. And she’d brighten the north wall with one of Chad’s big floral paintings.

Although it had been days since the break-in, Katie’s office still looked like a disaster zone. Getting any work done during retail hours was proving difficult. She could see her day off—Monday—as the only time she’d ever accomplish anything of significance. So be it.

“I need caffeine,” Katie told herself, remembering the coffeepot in the vendors’ lounge. She secured water from the ladies’ room tap, measured Maxwell House’s best into the filter basket, and hit the on switch.

Still reluctant to attack the mess, Katie decided to take a scenic tour of the place while the coffee dripped. Maybe she’d think of some inexpensive way of brightening the place. Threading her way through the darkened booths, with only the emergency lighting to illuminate the gloom, Katie groped her way to the main circuit box out front.

Why had Ezra enforced a policy that required all the booths to be the same drab brown? Well, that, too, would change. She’d give the artists a free hand in decorating their spaces. That would perk up the place and encourage sales. She’d call Edie Silver to see if she had any other ideas ...

Katie opened the breaker box, throwing the master switch. The inside of Artisans Alley glowed. Light for heat was an acceptable compromise, although she’d literally pay for it when the electricity bill came.

Humming tunelessly, Katie turned and started back to her office along the main aisle but stopped abruptly, the breath catching at the back of her throat.

Peter Ashby lay on his back on the rumpled, dingy carpet, his dull eyes staring at the ceiling, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

“I’m getting tired of driving all the way out here every day,” a weary Detective Davenport said to no one in particular.

More than an hour had passed since Katie had called 911. Peter Ashby still lay on Artisans Alley’s grubby carpet, still dead.